


The Girlfriend Mixup

by helloliriels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John Watson, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pub Night Out, What did you call me?, with the boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:28:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29552841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloliriels/pseuds/helloliriels
Summary: Sherlock was used to John getting his girlfriends mixed up, sure.He just wasn't used to being included IN that bunch...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	The Girlfriend Mixup

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a chapter in my inclusion to the 'February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge' with ohlooktheresabee, but realized it wasn't searchable in the bar, so posting it as a separate oneshot here!

"This is Sherlock," Watson introduced, as they slipped into the booth next to Watson's army buddies. Sherlock ended up trapped between Watson and another bloke. Elbow-to-elbow. He scooted closer to Watson as imperceptibly as he could. Watson noticed with a raised eyebrow and Holmes shrugged. "I don't mind," he said.

"You guys been here long?" Watson asked, returning his gaze to his buddies and eyeing their already full glasses. Sherlock could tell he was trying to decide what to start the evening out with. What might gain him the least amount of protest from this quarter. Sherlock was not about to help.

He hadn't wanted to come along. And this had been a compromise.

He attended with John.

John would forgive the recent explosion in the kitchen. A result of his latest, and frankly, promising experiment...

A waitress came by. Pert and blonde. Watson smiled at her. Turned the charm on full blast. Sherlock wanted to puke. He spoke up and interrupted as John was placing his order. Being sure to make it a strong fruity "girly" drink for both him and John. To share. Watson looked confused.

That would teach him.

Also get the guys to make fun of him.

Doubly worth it. No one was going home with Watson tonight but him. He was going to make sure of it.

He would have gone with John either way, if he was honest with himself. Arguing with Watson about it was a formality. One couldn't just agree to a social engagement. Bad form for a sociopath.

He also knew what being around a bunch of bachelors did to John 'Three Continents' Watson. He always had to prove something on those nights. And would usually come home wrapped in someone.

Sherlock squirmed in his chair. Fidgeted with his hands. Felt the underside of the table... no... better not do that. Gross.

He wrapped his hands in his coat sleeves and tried to think away the germs he had just come into contact with. He counted to ten. Looking down at his slim fingers as he peeked the tips back out from his cuff. Playing with the buttons on one hand. John was prattling on with the men. He had not heard a word so far.

He looked up. Watson was laughing and having a great time. It was worth it. Coming. He took a sip of his newly arrived drink. A garish pink affair with an umbrella on it. Watson's voice filtered in, "We were left stranded after that one! Haha! Caught the bloody thief! But Sherlock here, caught the worst of it!!!" He tumbled over laughing.

It was not a pleasant memory. Sherlock crinkled his nose. The smell of fish, from that day, almost still perceptible in his nostrils...

"He dove straight into the fish net to tackle the guy!! Made a very effective trap. I must say," He leaned closer to Sherlock, slapping his knee. And then left his hand lingering there. Sherlock looked down at it. Enjoying the moment. He was afraid to move. Watson might...

Watson's hand slid away and back up to the table. Where he picked up the pink concoction and drank heartily. Clearly intent on not letting Sherlock think he had won OR embarrassed him with his choice of drink.

Sherlock let slip a half smile. He did love this side of John. The devil-may-care, can't-get-me-down, side.

Watson only showed this side when he was really happy. When he was really confident. Like he was. Now.

Among friends. Next to friends. Sherlock also. A friend.

His eyes darkened.

Friend.

The word was an embrace as well as a wall, keeping him out. Keeping him from the closer layer. But there was no closer layer for them. Was there?

He reached for the drink in John's hands, and slipping his hands over them, brought it to his own mouth. Leaning towards John as he did so.

John was in the middle of a soliloquy about their next case (after the fish smelling fiasco) and had his audience held in rapt attention (Sherlock noticed with amusement). So it came as a surprise, when out of the corner of his eye, and continuing to talk - John Watson also leaned towards him. And kissed him. On the cheek. "How was that then, Love?" He asked the stunned Holmes. And then went back to talking. Not batting an eye.

Sherlock froze.

His brain fizzled.

Sherlock was used to John getting his girlfiend's mixed up, sure.

He just wasn't used to being included in that bunch...

He shrank back quietly. Careful to not interrupt Watson's speech or draw undue attention to the fact. And kept quiet. Maybe Watson hadn't noticed.

Maybe NOBODY had noticed.

It would be okay still. He tried to calm his breathing. He was having a bit of a panic attack himself. Not entirely sure why, either.

And John Watson noticed.

John always noticed Sherlock.

It would have made Sherlock smile. If he hadn't been so intent on NOT being noticed at the moment. On not drawing any attention to what John had mistakenly done only a moment ago...

Sherlock realized that John was saying his name now.... had been, for a while, "Sherlock? Hey! Sherlock?!"

Sherlock looked up as if dazed. John's eyes were burning with worry. "You okay, Love?" he asked. A strong tenderness, clearly making it's way into his voice.

Sherlock must have looked his confusion. For Watson was getting up now and definitely shifting into 'Doctor Watson' mode. Sherlock tried shaking his head and saying he was fine. But John wasn't having it, "Up!!" He commanded, and shifted Sherlock, almost bodily out of his seat. "C'mon Love," He was saying, "Fresh air. Good ol' London fog in your lungs' wot you need." He hauled Sherlock out of the pub and onto the cobblestone street in front of them. It was a narrow road for London town. One of the older boroughs. Mostly residential. This pub had clearly been one of the older establishments, and as such had tiny mullioned windows that showed little from without or within.

Watson had tucked him into the corner of the covered entryway. And was patting down his arms and puffing away the cold that threatened to envelope them.

"You okay?" Watson asked again. Sherlock noted that he had dropped the 'Love' from earlier. So it clearly was just a show for some reason. He calmed his breathing. Forcing himself to act and react the part that John was wanting him to play.

He figured he should establish exactly WHAT that part was. At this point in the venture.

He dropped a blank expression across his face then opened his eyes. Looking at John clearly at last.

John meanwhile had been tending to Sherlock's frozen hands, and looked up - with such gentleness - and Sherlock almost thought for a second - LOVE - that he looked away. This was going to be hard.

Why would Watson make him do this? What had he done to deserve this fake night of closer affection? Affection that he craved, so badly.

The alcohol was starting to kick in. And he was feeling less and less in control of his emotions. He gruffed his throat and blinked past a building pool of tears that was beginning to form on his eyes.

"Hey," Watson was demanding attention, still and yet, "Sherlock, Love - what is it?"

Sherlock turned on John.

"Don't!"

He growled it.

John looked up. Hurt. Taken aback, he hesitated, head drawn back. Then he shifted his chin forward again, and said, "Pardon? DON'T... what exactly?"

Sherlock glowered. "Really, John?"

"Really."

John waited.

"Love."

Sherlock stated. Simply. THAT. Deal with THAT first John. "What game is that hmmm?"

He found, he was going to release it all.

"Am I the girlfriend TONIGHT then, John?" He spat, "A temporary placeholder for you? Something to show the guys you aren't ALONE? Small fact, would have been nice to KNOW first."

He lifted himself up and off the wall, slamming his shoulder past John. Attempting to walk away.

John trailed after him.

John always

trailed after him.

Sherlock heard the footsteps behind him with heightened sadness. John's puppy-like habits were endearing at times. The exception being when you needed to escape his obsessive attention.

"Sherlock, wait!" John begged. Grabbing at his arm. "Wait you madman!!" He yelled. Trying to keep hold of Sherlock desperately.

Sherlock picked up the pace, slipping away. "Sorry John, I know you didn't mean to do it. Go back, they'll be missing you." He waved John off, "At least they know you're not alone now. That's clearly what you brought me here for. It worked. They believed it. Congratulations. You can let them know you're going home to me and go find yourself a date for the night, for _real_ after. Maybe that pert thing at the bar. She looked interested. They'll never be the wiser." The last few words came out like eating glass. The last thing he could have possibly wanted. His stomach tightened at the thought of John, HIS John, going home with that blonde little thing. Six months of no girlfriend, and then for THIS to happen. He sighed.

He willed himself to stand still. Taking a look back over his shoulder to see the reaction his snide remarks had had on the golden soldier. The man he loved.

John had stopped as if pinned in place to the ground. Dead quiet for a few moments. His mouth an O of absolute stunned silence. "I..." was all he managed to stutter out.

"I thank you John. Calling me 'Love' was a kindness." Sherlock continued then, "Could have just pretended I was your f..." He didn't get out the rest of the vulgarities he was about to issue out, as Watson had stormed up to him at this point and slapped his hand across Sherlock's mouth to stop him bodily, from speaking.

"Now you will listen to me, you mad, crazy, gorgeous bastard!!" He responded at last. Sherlock attempted to mumble a word against his palm and Watson cut him off, "You. Will. Listen." Sherlock stopped fighting the hand clamped against his face. Fine. Whatever. Get it over with already. He rolled his eyes as John released him, and then John bounced a little, on the balls of his feet. Hand tightening and releasing. Open palm. Fist. Open palm.

He was psyching himself up a bit before he could continue. Counting his thoughts before he spoke. Sherlock was used to this action, in inaction. He waited. Then John continued.

"You only get mean like this, really mean - when you're emotionally compromised," John began at last, pausing to look up at Sherlock for confirmation. The split-second look that had passed across Sherlock's face (before the mask fell) was obviously enough to encourage Watson to continue, "and I did not!" He nodded his head at this, raising his voice, "DID NOT mean to imply that you are a TEMPORARY _anything!_ " Watson was winding up. More was clearly coming. "Not temporary at all!!! Mr. Genius. Mister I'm-too-bloody-smart-for-my-own-damn-good and don't-even-notice-when-my-best-friend-has-turned-down-every-girl-he-has-met-in-the-last-6-months, for you brainiac!!" He was spinning around on the street. Yelling it at the top of his lungs.

Sherlock eyed John with disbelief narrowing his vision. His brain was on high alert. Skeptical. "What about the waitress?" he asked.

John stopped spinning. He laughed. "I KNEW you weren't paying attention, Christ Sherlock! I tried to hook her up with Antonio!! Didn't you se... of course you didn't." He threw his hands up, despairing "They even exchanged numbers!"

Sherlock tried again, certain there was something else behind this, had to be... "Are you... drunk then?"

"No," John Watson shook his head now, sadly. Catching on at last.

Picking his jacket back up from where it had slipped out of his hands, he slapped it against the ground in an act of minor aggression and started to shift himself back towards the pub. ""No.... Just.... incredibly stupid apparently." He huffed and looked back at the pub and then back at Sherlock with one last hope of recognition.... and.... Sherlock saw it then (when he did not respond quickly enough)... Gave up.

...

John Hamish Watson.

Resident of Bart's Bloody Hospital.

Veteran of Kandahar and Afghanistan.

Survivor of a Mortal Wound.

Survivor of a Best Friend's Suicide before his eyes. 

Survivor of a lying, manipulative, murderous Wife....

Gave up.

Sherlock felt like he had just broken something.

John Watson was shrugging and shuffling away, "Clearly. Just. Stupid." He mumbled under his breath, "to think my flatmate might actually have liked me back." He was fumbling in his pocket now and trying for nonchalance by checking his phone for the time, when it slipped out of his unsteady hands, and fell to the ground below. And shattered.

.

.

.

John bent down.

Silently. Not even cursing at this point...

So he was beyond mad.

Or hurt.

Sherlock realized in that moment.

He was broken...

Sherlock could not let John leave like this. He could not for a _moment_ stand for John to put himself down. To think less of his own brilliance, the radiance that had helped him through thick and thin. A light shining clearly through any darkness to the answer hidden within. Nor could he bear to think that he had in any way caused the love of his life, the most perfect _other_ , he could ever hope to find on this teeming earth - to not see how much HE, Sherlock Holmes _wanted_ him by his side.

He raced to catch John's hand in his. Where it had dropped to grab the phone. Swooping to pick it up instead, and carefully taking it away from him. In it's damaged state and all.

John stopped frozen mid-crouch. Sherlock's right hand still touching his. Steadying him. 

John stayed perched there a few moments, looking down at his feet. And sighed, as Sherlock dropped the phone into his OWN pocket.

John stood up then, and looked away pointedly, making ready to leave.

Sherlock stopped him. Holding onto his hand, so that he could. not. go.

Watson, mid-turn, the weight still on the ball of his right foot and the flat of his left.

His arm stretched out behind him. In Sherlock's grasp.

Then Sherlock turned his wrist over, exposing the pulse point on John's outstretched arm. Sherlock's delicate fingers traced over John's palm. Touching fingers pad to pad. John instinctively curling his fingers in response, to hold. To feel. To touch, for a moment.

And then Sherlock brushed John's wrist, where it paled on the underside, not tanned like the top of the arm somehow always managed to appear. His index finger held there, temporarily. Counting.

Taking his pulse.

Feeling. 

_Needing._

Some confirmation of the emotion and sentiment that John had just expressed. Was real. Could be real. Could be... true?

And John was letting him.

John was turning back towards him.

John knew this game.

He had seen it with Irene. He had attempted it himself with countless girlfriends. Always exposing the fakes. Which was sadly, most of them...

And he wanted Sherlock to know. THIS was real.

He looked up, into Sherlock's searching eyes. Ready to give him full reason for it. He let himself be honest. He let himself be bare. He let himself... Love. Even if only one last time. 

And Sherlock held his gaze. Watching his eyes darken. Watching his eyes blow wide with WANT. with NEED. with PLEASE.

And

Then Sherlock dropped John's hand. A small intake of breath as he showed the awesome weight of his findings clearly on his face. He knew. 

John. Wasn't. Lying.

John. Wasn't. Acting.

John, he admitted to himself now.

Couldn't. Act.

Hadn't this been the very reason, he had left him out of the Reichenbach plans?

Hadn't this been the very reason he had failed at every relationship he had tried to foster? Hadn't this been the very reason... it dawned on him. That John had REALLY asked for him to come along, here? Tonight?

If John could bare his heart like this, then Sherlock was going to ensure he knew it was in safe keeping, here with him.

He stepped forward. "You didn't really ask me here tonight as punishment for the experiment, did you John?" He asked.

John shook his head, no. Waiting for more.

"You really meant to show me off to your friends. Your army mates, as your significant other?"

John fought back tears and then nodded. Yes.

Sherlock stepped forward. Still unbelieving, but if this. If this _was_ real?

His hand slipped to cup behind John's exposed neck, trembling as he did so. He kept his eyes locked on John's the whole way in, so that John would know what was coming. As he bent carefully towards John's waiting, soft, upturned lips - meeting him, halfway - in a slow, long, beautiful kiss.

John sighed. Relaxing into Sherlock's arms, as they wrapped to encompass him.

Sherlock smiled into the kiss. Renewing his exploration with energy.

There was something giving within him. And he was letting it free.

By the sounds John was making, he was also enjoying this moment. _Thoroughly_.

When they pulled away, breathless, at last - they were both panting and giddy with it. The smile on John's face alone, could have warmed Sherlock on ANY cold night. He had completely forgotten about how frozen his nose was becoming. 

John gave a little laugh, an act of absolute incredulity of how the evening had shifted. He then reached up and tapped Sherlock's rosy red nose with a 'boop'. And then kissed the tip of it, nudging in to him like a cat. Sherlock loved it.

The following look John gave him, was so full of adoration and absolute contentment, that Sherlock's heart swelled with pride. "I'm the idiot, John," he said. Holding onto Watson closely. In the empty street lit only by windows, and staring to rain. 

This was his Watson.

This was his John.

This was. HIS.

He was stunned for a second.

HIS.

He thought.

He stopped and looked the question at Watson.

_What did this mean for tonight?_

John had said, this wasn't a _temporary_ thing. That he wasn't _playing_ a relationship. Did that mean?... The skeptical part of his mind still expected John to draw some invisible line when they left here, that would only extend the intimacy SO far (and no further!).

So he reached out,

Afraid when he did so, but needing. NEEDING. to know.

And John. John drew him in. Pulling their bodies closer together. Holding Sherlock to himself, and showing in the next moment that he was very happy to be in such proximity... all legs and arms and... 

John was wanting. Him.

He smiled. Looking down at John, another question in his expression. He didn't care how much like a teenager he looked at this point. How green and new John was making him...

John glowed with pleasure, looking back up at him, laughing as he did so. "Yes, you glorious creature," he said consolingly, "yes - whatever you want to do when we get home - yes. BUT," he stopped, wagging his finger at the detective's furrowed brow, "but... you will have to finish having drinks with the boys here first. NO OUTS!! AND I want to hear what _my_ pet name is. So think of one quick, mister!" He chuffed and hauled Sherlock back in towards the pub for a round with the waiting crew.

They stumbled back in.

A rousing cheer going up as the door closed behind them. Bets having been won. Proper teasing to be made.

Maybe these fellows weren't so bad after all.

Sherlock smiled, squeezing John's hand in his as they retook their seats. A little closer, this time.

It was going to be a good night,

After all.

\- the end -


End file.
